Crown of Holly
by Fallarin
Summary: The Argent Crusade hosts a fabulous Winter Veil gala, Tournament-style. During the festivities, Jaina Proudmoore finds that the intentions of one of Azeroth's leaders may force her into a decision with a high cost, no matter what she chooses.


Crown of Holly

_A World of Warcraft Feast of Winter Veil Tale_

_Disclaimer: _You know the deal. It's fan fiction. Blizzard owns them; I don't.

When it came to the Feast of Winter Veil, the Argent Crusade organizers surpassed the call of duty. No expense was spared, no festive addition left unexplored. For every Azerothian who argued that nothing good would come of such profligate revelry on Icecrown Citadel's doorstep, at least three more had reasons to counter. After all, there was much to celebrate this year. The first major crack had appeared in the Citadel's armor shortly before midwinter. Despite certain inflammatory leaders and the Lich King's own designs, open war between Alliance and Horde had so far been avoided. The alliance with the Knights of the Ebon Blade continued to strengthen, and the military presence from the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor had solidified in Northrend.

With both the high road and popular opinion firmly on their side, the Argent Crusade set about creating the celebration soon after the end of Pilgrim's Bounty. They called the event the Tournament of the Winter Veil, because a grand elimination tournament would be the climax of the festival. Orders were dispatched to every corner of Azeroth, and were the subject of much speculation. Before long, messengers and deliverers began to arrive at the Crusade's patch of frozen earth in the remote northeast corner of Icecrown. They bore invoices, parcels, packages, and manifests for wagon and ship loads.

Travelers to the Argent Crusade's daily jousts returned to their homes with tales of the strange goods arriving at the Tournament Grounds: exotic metals from the smiths of Thorium Point; strange fruits from Stranglethorn Vale; fireworks from Saltheril's Haven and Moonglade; livestock fat for slaughter from the Barrens and Nagrand; bolts of cloth and barding from the tailors of Darnassus; and barrels and casks of potent drink from Gadgetzan, Sholazar Basin, Blackrock Depths, and the ogres of Blade's Edge—just to name a few.

Next, the invitations went out. For the most part, these consisted of bright, eye-catching bills pinned to the notice boards outside every tavern and town hall from Darkshire to the Stormspire. A number of special invites, printed in the gold, silver, and black of the Argent Crusade, were hand-delivered to certain distinguished persons. Some of these meant to ensure the presence of Azeroth's leaders; others were appropriately flattering requests to attend the invitation-only joust tournament that would comprise the last two days of the celebration.

The Argent Crusade built a number of wooden lean-tos and hoisted tents to house the anticipated multitudes on the open ground east and south of the two Pavilion tents. Indoors, the Silver Covenant and Sunreaver Pavilion floors were sectioned off. Luxurious tents of silk, leather, and canvas were raised there, out of the weather, to house the royal families and their attendants. Long feast tables beneath protective awnings were placed around the south and east wings of the Coliseum. The grandstands around the Ring of Champions were doubled in size, and a large box built in the center of the stands to comfortably seat Azeroth's nobles. Tales of anticipated delights grew to the point that some worried that the reality couldn't possibly live up to the talk. Others were sure that the Argent Crusade would keep a few surprises up its sleeve no matter what.

At last, the opening day of the celebration arrived. Thousands of people of all races swelled the Tournament Grounds. Highlord Tirion Fordring officially opened the festivities, standing on a platform before the Argent Pavilion and welcoming everyone to the Tournament of Winter Veil. He had to shout to be heard, his words passed back along through the crowd for the benefit of those at the outer fringes.

With Fordring and his honor guard stood the leaders of Azeroth. It made the mind reel to see such great folk, some of them open adversaries, occupying the same space and waving to the vast crowd—even if the Horde leaders kept rank on one side of Fordring and the Alliance, the other. From the tauren Cairne Bloohoof with his broad bare chest furred and comfortable in the arctic cold, to High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque standing on a discreet box that allowed him to see over the railing, every noble house of Azeroth's great races was present.

It was five days before Midwinter. Highlord Fordring reminded all those present that the Argent Tournament's usual rules of armistice were in effect throughout the festival and would be enforced. He went on to add that he was certain such enforcement would be unnecessary, as the holiday spirit was thick as ghosts in the air. To emphasize his point, he indicated the mist raised by all the mingled breathing and talking. He got the laugh he wanted, waved once, and stepped down from the platform with a smile and a handshake for each of the visiting dignitaries.

Inwardly, the Highlord said a prayer of thanks to the Light that the opening ceremonies had gone so well. The periodic visits of Warchief Thrall and Garrosh Hellscream, coinciding with those of Varian Wrynn and Lady Jaina Proudmoore, had in particular worn his nerves thin. Adding the rest of Azeroth's noble families was a gamble. At least, thought Tirion as he strode into the Argent Pavilion in search of something resembling a large brandy, it was well begun.

Outside the Pavilion, the revelers began to amble through the grounds. Many folk had never been to the Tournament before and were openly awed at what they saw. Even those seasoned fighters who visited regularly were impressed. Garlands of holly and mistletoe bordered every arch and doorway. Red, white, and green streamers wrapped around every post, gate, and railing. At the stables, squires braided festive ribbons and favors into the bridles of the Tournament mounts. Vendors hawked their wares from the stalls southwest of the Coliseum and along the path to the Aspirants' Ring in the northwest. Many of the these offered spiced sweets free to children and hot drinks to their parents, earning them extra business for this small kindness.

All manner of folk thronged the grounds, from every race and continent, from infants to bent-backed old warriors. The chefs worked all morning and afternoon roasting and baking, and the brewmasters sweated to keep up with the demand for the excellent and varied drink as the afternoon waned toward evening.

The Crusade patrollers were on hand to put a quick stop to any grievances, but on this first day at least, nobody seemed compelled to fight. If one looked closely enough, it was possible to see the occasional night elf give a brief smile to a passing tauren, or—more incredibly still—to catch a Forsaken warlock stooped in a half bow to a gnome child. People ate, laughed, sang, drank, danced, and slept at will. The tables were laden and bellies were full. Teams of musicians played lively tunes at each of the Coliseum's four wings.

As the sun began to set, Jaina Proudmoore took her leave of the company in the Argent Pavilion to saunter through the Tournament Grounds arm in arm with her chamberlain, Aegwynn. Beneath long blond locks, Jaina's face reflected the serene calm she was feeling for the first time in she didn't know how many months. She strode without purpose, a relaxed set to her shoulders. It felt delicious to be so totally at ease.

The former Guardian at her side was by contrast as excited as a child. Aegwynn had braided back her long gray hair and was looking around constantly, trying to see everything at once, setting the plait in motion. Her eyes were bright and merry beneath the wrinkles of age. She was like some ancient spirit of the season, Jaina thought; she herself had no trouble succumbing to Aegwynn's infectious good cheer.

From time to time, Aegwynn would let go long enough to dash over to a booth selling trinkets or foodstuffs. After a few moments, Aegwynn would emerge from her detour bearing a glass bauble to string about her neck, or a giant turkey leg which she waved around like a club, or a souvenir tabard to slip over her head. Jaina wasn't sure, but she thought that Aegwynn was wearing no less than six tabards layered over her robes.

The two women passed the Aspirant's Ring and walked out to the northwest ledge to watch the sun set over the palisades and the sea below. Aegwynn finished her turkey leg, tossed the bone off the cliff, and dragged her ample sleeve across her mouth. "Are you happy we came, my Lady?" she asked, looking up at Jaina. There was a time when the Guardian would have looked down by several inches on the archmage, but the centuries had a way of bending one beneath their weight. "Or would you prefer to still be shuttling between Dalaran and Theramore, buried in the damned politics and paperwork you complained about leaving behind?"

The sun burst from behind a fleeting cloud, bathing the sea in molten gold and dazzling their eyes. Jaina turned her head away from the brightness and laughed, hugging Aegwynn's arm to her side. "Don't you dare _my lady _me, Aegwynn," she retorted. "And the damned politics and paperwork, as you say, will still be waiting for me when I get back, deeper than ever." She inhaled hugely, but shook off the weight with a laugh instead of a sigh. "Yes, I'm happy we came. Everyone needs to escape their responsibilities sometime, at least for a little while."

Aegwynn nodded. "And you have more than most." Turned as she was toward Jaina, she caught movement from behind them out of the corner of her eye. "Too bad you can't escape them all," she added in a murmur.

Jaina felt the other woman's tension through her arm and noted the direction of Aegwynn's gaze. Nodding, she leaned her cheek against Aegwynn's rough gray head, listening to the now-audible footsteps crunching through the snow toward them. "At least he'll be fighting in the tournament, so I won't have to baby-sit," she whispered.

Aegwynn whispered back, "The tournament's two days away, and I don't think baby-sitting is at all on _his _mind." As whispers went, it was an awfully loud one. Jaina resisted the urge to elbow her chamberlain in the ribs as the footsteps stopped mere yards behind them.

"Now, here's a lovely picture." The voice, at once haughty and warm, embodied the duality that existed to the core in its owner, and to which Jaina had learned she must not give an inch. Unfortunately, the man could be as charming and genuine as he was volatile, which made her distrust of him—despite her outward show of support—harder for her conscience to bear.

It didn't help that he had recently begun to court her, making no secret of his intentions.

Jaina turned smoothly, affecting surprise, reflecting nothing. "Hello, Varian," she said pleasantly.

Aegwynn, not partial to such niceties, peered at Varian from beneath Jaina's chin and her own craggy brows. "Well, if it isn't the king of Stormwind," she announced. "Now _this _is a nice surprise. Isn't it a nice surprise, my lady?" Her voice and face were all innocent delight, yet Jaina sensed the mockery there and was sure Varian could too.

"Thank you, Aegwynn," said Jaina firmly, hoping to quell her. To her horror, she found she was biting back laughter, rather than dismissing Aegwynn to other tasks, as she often did when Varian visited them in Theramore and her chamberlain was disinclined to be cooperative. Which, Jaina thought, was most of the time where Varian Wrynn was concerned. On that subject, Aegwynn was clear: Varian represented the single biggest threat to undoing everything Jaina had worked so hard to achieve since Lordaeron fell.

Jaina eyed Varian warily. Her position was a unique one, on two very different fronts. She represented the sole human beachhead in Kalimdor, which to Varian's ambitions was a perfect conduit through which to launch an invasion or repel an attack in Horde territory. To Varian as widower, father, and man, however, Jaina Proudmoore was nearly as tempting as her city. She was beautiful, intelligent, well-bred, and independent. Jaina could hear this opinion in everything Varian said, and didn't say. She claimed none of those attributes herself.

What she did claim, she hoped, was that she was also intimidating. She had helped to nurse Varian's physical and mental health when he'd been only a shell of a man—or, rather, two men. He'd healed and overcome many of his demons, but she still had the psychological advantage of having known him at his worst and most helpless. Since that time, she had stood firmly in his way to prevent outright war with the Horde, counseling wisdom and refusing to credit his rantings. Her power gave him pause. It was probably the only reason he hadn't asked outright for her hand.

Her deeper instincts (and, frequently, Aegwynn) screamed that he was the wrong choice for husband. He was reckless. He was dangerous, in more ways than one. His sheer masculinity appealed to Jaina on a primitive level, one that she often thought would make her life easier if she didn't possess. His courtship, while disturbing in all its implications, was also gratifying in a way that made her squirm in self-disgust. That same weakness whispered to her on sleepless nights, revealing that despite everything, some dark corner of her psyche still loved Arthas.

Ignorant of the turmoil in Jaina's mind, Varian knit his brows at Aegwynn before according her a short nod. He turned his attention back to Jaina. The sounds of music and revelry came faintly to them across the grounds. Small groups of people strolled at a distance, but no one else had chosen to watch the sunset from their particular vantage point. Jaina stood in a nimbus of sunset light that tangled in her hair like a golden crown. Her face was in shadow so he couldn't see her expression: just the curve of cheek and jaw as she coyly laid her cheek against Aegwynn's hair.

He wasted no time coming to the point. "Jaina, do me the honor of dining with me tonight." Despite the courteous phrasing, it wasn't a request. Jaina raised her head slowly, keeping her face expressionless. She had in fact hoped to dine with Thrall, in an attempt to rekindle her recently distanced friendship with the Warchief; to simply let him know she had enjoyed their conversations on the bluffs above Razor Hill, and missed them. However, she hadn't had the opportunity to speak to him about it—he'd been spirited away from the Argent Pavilion right after Tirion's speech by Sylvanas Windrunner, and between her and Garrosh, he'd seemed to have his hands full. Informing Varian of her intent to sup with his least favorite Horde leader would certainly dispel the tranquility and happiness Jaina had felt all afternoon. She wasn't ready to let go of it.

So, instead, she nodded graciously. "I'd like that very much, Varian. Thank you."

The king opened his mouth with an imperious air, but Jaina cut him off smoothly to prevent his monopolizing her now. "Aegwynn and I will find you at the tables when the supper gong rings." She added such a dazzling smile that Varian would appear rude if he insisted upon her immediate attendance. Still smiling, she turned and guided Aegwynn away, taking the shortest path to the Argent Valiants' Ring and the safety of the large crowd gathered there.

Aegwynn twisted her head around to scowl at the king of Stormwind, earning herself a sharp jab from Jaina. She coughed. "That was well said, Jaina," she said tartly, disengaging herself to rub her side with a wounded air. "You keep that up, he'll think you're finally warming up to him, and be on bended knee by midnight. Well done, indeed."

Jaina kept her smile pasted on her face. "Magna, I'm far too happy to want to argue with him tonight. Don't fret."

Aegwynn's scowl deepened at her mistress's use of her old title. Insolent whelp, that's what she was. Determined not to rise to Jaina's goading, she asked in an innocent-sounding tone, "On the other hand, what harm can come of accepting him? You couldn't ask for a better family, with the Menethil line dead. There's no denying he's handsome."

It was Jaina's turn to frown, if only for a moment. "You know what harm there is. You tell me often enough. I won't let him use Theramore as a launching ground for a _fourth _war."

Gently, Aegwynn asked, "But could Theramore survive if Stormwind decides to take it by force?"

Jaina stopped in her tracks. Her blue eyes blazed down at Aegwynn. "You know it couldn't. We're not fighters; we never were." She took a deep breath; her earlier calm was shattered. "Why are you playing devil's advocate, Aegwynn? If there's anybody who wants me to accept Varian even less than I do, it's you."

Aegwynn patted her arm. "Just keeping your feet on the ground, Jaina. Either choice might be a bad one, but you can't keep up the balancing act forever. Sooner or later, you're going to have to choose." Before Jaina could reply, she added, "And don't think I don't know that you're allowing Varian to usurp your plans for the evening. When will you learn that sometimes you don't have to sacrifice your own happiness in order to make those who matter happy?"

At that moment, they reached the edge of the milling crowd and Jaina was spared the necessity of a reply. Besides, she had a feeling Aegwynn already knew the answer. Giving the old Guardian's arm a pat, Jaina turned to speak with the people who greeted her with cries of welcome. The simple act of mingling allowed Jaina to restore enough of her goodwill to shake off Aegwynn's all too accurate insights. By the time the supper gong sounded, she felt able to deal with anything Varian might toss her way.

The king was the picture of chivalry as he escorted Jaina to their place at table. For supper, eight long tables had been arranged into a rough octagon. Torches burned around the perimeter, illuminating the diners. In the center of the octagon, a pit of banked coals was set, flanked by a two braziers and a single broad table that fairly groaned beneath the weight of the food laden upon it. Those who had not wrangled themselves a spot at the octagon, nearest the food and fire, arranged themselves at other tables just outside it. The brewers' and winemens' apprentices, laden with jugs and skins, were kept running to fill every call for drink.

Each of the tables in the octagon held several cushioned, high-backed chairs for the attending nobility. Somehow, Varian contrived to seat himself between Jaina and Aegwynn at their table, ever inch the solicitous monarch. He glanced over at Jaina as she accepted a full plate from one of the chefs' helpers, his face relaxed and pleasant. It made a nice change from his usual brooding expression—too nice a change. Jaina slid her own eyes away and tasted a bite of plainstrider. The meat was tender and juicy beneath the crisp, spiced skin. She didn't have to feign enjoyment.

"So, Miss Proudmoore." Varian's voice was light, teasing. "Do you intend to tie your favor onto my lance when I take the field in three days?" He rested his right hand on the table beside her left. Jaina transferred her fork to that hand, picked up her knife, and took her time cutting another slice of strider meat.

"I thought you were of the opinion that jousts are a waste of time and resources," she answered, giving him a level glance.

"Now, when did I say that?" His smile slipped just a little, but he kept his tone jovial.

"The last time we came here, when Tirion invited us to his new Coliseum." With her wine goblet, Jaina indicated the high wall at their backs. Varian and Garrosh had nearly come to blows during that visit, and it had taken all her and Thrall's efforts to keep them from each other's throats. Then, as now, Varian had prevented her from speaking to the Warchief under otherwise pleasant circumstances—which were all too rare, these days. Her eyes betrayed her thoughts, and strayed to the two orcs sitting at another table, looking much too big for it.

Jaina stiffened when she realized that Thrall was looking back at her, his eyes as startlingly blue as ever beneath black hair and green skin.

Varian waved his hand dismissively. "That was nothing. The stress of the moment. Our people expect me to show Stormwind's dominance to its greatest potential here. It's part of the reason why I came. In truth, it will be good to get back into action again. Too much soft living is no good for the gladiator in me. Besides, Jaina, you must know that I—" he broke off, noting the direction of her gaze. His lip curled. Jaina, still looking in Thrall's direction, saw Garrosh beside him sit up straighter and glare daggers at Varian. "Filth," the King spat, but had the grace to keep his voice low. "They no more deserve to share our table than an animal."

"Varian." Jaina turned to him, bolt upright, every stiff inch of her back showing disapproval and censure. "We're here in the spirit of harmony and goodwill. I trust you remember that. Save it for the tournament, all right?"

"What does that have to do with putting a dumb beast in its place?" Varian's fierce gaze was still fixed on Garrosh, who glowered unblinkingly back out of red eyes. Jaina could feel the tension radiating off the king like heat, and feared that if she didn't defuse him, there would be a fight right then. Aegwynn was busy ignoring Varian on his other side, and was no help.

"Really, Varian." Her sudden drawl affected bored disdain. "You should spend less time planning a war and more time listening to the gossip of your own court. If you did, you'd know that Garrosh has entered the Tournament, too."

That did it. Varian turned to stare at her. "Really."

Jaina's shoulders all but sagged in relief. "Yes, really. Ask Tirion if you like. He and Thrall were both invited, but only Garrosh accepted." Privately, she thought that was a little out of character for the son of Grom Hellscream, who had been overheard ridiculing a joust as being a waste of time spent poking someone with a pointy stick—but Aegwynn's sources were watertight.

"Garrosh Hellscream in the joust." Varian's grin was a shade too wide. "Suddenly, I'm looking forward to this tournament even more." With that, he bent his head to his plate and began to eat heartily.

Jaina glanced along at Thrall's table again, trying to catch his eye. The Warchief had been speaking to Garrosh, who looked calmer. Thrall gave Jaina an imperceptible nod, then rolled his eyes in the young Overlord's direction and mimed dragging a clawed finger across his throat. So infrequently had Jaina seen the Warchief in a playful mood that she stared at him, shocked, for a second before shaking her head slightly and giving Thrall a wry smile. It was the last time she smiled that night.

Tirion Fordring strode to the center of the octagon, clearing his throat and tapping his goblet for silence. Everyone looked up respectfully, wondering what he had to say; there was no speech on the agenda for tonight's feast.

"I hope you're all enjoying the meal," the Highlord began. To the murmurs of approval, he added, "I'll keep this brief, so the chefs don't lynch me for ruining it." He looked from face to face as soft laughter rippled around the tables, and nodded. "Good. It looks like everyone invited to the elimination joust is here. The Argent Crusade has decided, in honor of the season, to make an unannounced addition to the Tournament. It was the custom among many of our peoples, long ago, to allow a tournament champion to choose a queen—or king, because there have been female winners. This individual was chosen to represent the goodness and purity of the mortal soul, just as the tournament champion celebrated its resilience and strength."

He had their attention now; everyone had stopped eating and was watching him intently. Tirion continued, "This year, we plan to bring back that tradition. The winner of the Tournament may crown one who will represent all of our finer qualities—fair of face and of mind, beautiful in body and spirit—as the Lady or Lord of Winter Veil. She or he will stand beside the Champion in the spirit of the season. I hope they will both inspire all of us, as the paradigm of what we can be, and should be, as we face the threat inside Icecrown Citadel with the turning of the year."

Fordring sat down to applause, and the guests took up this new development with relish. Varian reached out and clasped Jaina's hand in his before she could resist. "As I was trying to tell you earlier, Jaina, I'm here to fight for _you_." He spoke quietly, but his disconcertingly light blue eyes burned as if with fever. "You know I will win this tournament. No one here can stand against Lo'Gosh in the fighting ring." He bent his dark head close to her bright one; Jaina looked back at him as calmly as she could. "And once I triumph, Lady Proudmoore, I will crown you my Lady of Winter Veil."

Jaina grew suddenly, profoundly cold. "I'd rather you didn't, Varian."

"Why not?" His eyes blazed, and he gripped her hand tightly as she made to pull it away. "Jaina, I've made no secret of my interest in you. This is a chance to show that Stormwind and Theramore stand together against all rivals. More than that, it's the chance for me to make my intentions clear to everyone. You've been my nurse, my savior, my counselor. Now try being something more."

His voice was as rough as his hand, which gripped Jaina's fingers now to the point of pain. A mixed flare of anger and fear shot through her, and she let a brief tongue of flame lick from her palm into Varian's. Scorched by magic, he jerked his hand away. Anger at her trick replaced surprise in his face, which darkened with more than passion. Jaina watched him back, refusing to look away but feeling her heart pound against her breastbone like a panicked rabbit.

"Beware the consequences of refusing me, Jaina," Varian warned. His voice was a low hiss of rage, his face contorted with anger.

That brought Jaina's own anger back. "Is that a threat?" she asked coldly.

"Theramore cannot afford to lose Stormwind's support on any front. You must know that." His expression cleared a little. "Perhaps I came on too strong. But think carefully before you turn me down. I've never been anything but supportive."

Jaina could think of quite a few times when he'd been anything but. However, people were starting to stare at them. This was not the time to provoke a fight. So she answered blandly, "I'll keep in mind what you've said, Varian."

As soon as she could politely do so, she slipped away from the feast and retired to her lodgings inside the Silver Covenant Pavilion, feigning sleep when Aegwynn arrived to join her some time later. She felt warm displacement of air as Aegwynn checked on her, then heard soft footsteps retreat as her chamberlain sought her own bed. Jaina waited until the tent was quiet, then rolled onto her back and stared unseeing into the darkness.

Before the sun rose, she was up. She dressed quickly and quietly in white fur against the cold, left the tent, and tiptoed across the broad Pavilion floor, carefully skirting the other grand tents set up for each of Azeroth's leaders. Outside, the cold bit at her exposed face, making her eyes water and turning her breath to crystalline vapor. Jaina made her way along to the stables, guided by the stars still showing in the west and the gray sepulchral light in the east.

The stables were much warmer, and smelled of leather and animals. Her gryphon, Featherpaw, was already awake, and creeled softly at his mistress's appearance. Jaina laid her cheek against the feathered head for a moment, needing the comfort of touch. "You restless too, boy?" she whispered. "Let's go get the lay of the land."

In moments, she'd tacked up the gryphon with her blue and white Theramore barding. Featherpaw followed her out of the stable and waited patiently while she mounted. Jaina ran her fingers across the spot on the gryphon's neck where feathers blended seamlessly into fur, found the neck rein, and clucked her tongue softly. Featherpaw launched himself into the cold air, his wings making no more noise than an owl's. Jaina guided him south, over the scarred and frozen plateau of Sindragosa's Fall, then turned slightly west as the land fell away beneath them and the gates of Mord'rethar, impossibly vast, appeared in the distance.

The sun rose at their backs, but Jaina took no comfort from it. Neither did she glean any of her usual joy of flying this dismal morning. It was bitterly cold, and gusts of wind blew snow around them as they flew. She murmured a small spell to warm her frozen nose and cheeks. Mord'rethar grew closer, its spires piercing the lightening sky like black knives. Instinct and common sense informed her that she should turn back soon. Even Featherpaw rattled his beak and cocked his head birdwise back in her direction. Grimly, she shook her head and urged the gryphon onward.

They overflew Mord'rethar at high altitude so as not to alert the horrors that guarded it. The sun was fully over the eastern mountains now, but was hidden by scudding clouds and skirls of snow. Jaina pressed on until, at last, the impossibly high spikes of Icecrown Citadel's central keep were visible to the southwest. She circled Featherpaw in to land on a dismal little spot of ground, atop one of the low, barren mountains that bordered the Citadel to the east. The gryphon snorted and turned his tail to the wind as she dismounted, expressing disappointment that the place his mistress had chosen to land bore nothing to eat.

The air had changed. It was just as cold, but instead of smelling cleanly of snow and the faint tang of ocean, as it did further north, the wind brought sharp odors of rust and decay from the south. Jaina walked to the edge of the hilltop and peered longsightedly at the half-visible tower. Inside her mittens, her fingers clenched tight enough to cut into her palms. She didn't feel it. Somewhere inside that tower, brooding on his frozen throne, was the Lich King. Locked inside him, maybe forever, was Arthas Menethil. Once, she had loved him. Perhaps she still did.

Jaina stared until her eyes teared up from not blinking. Why was it, she wondered bitterly, that none of the men in her life ever listened to her? Time after time, her decisions had proven correct, but no one ever seemed to learn from that. Her instincts were bound to turn her against Varian's wishes, just as she had turned against her father, following the course she felt to be right; just as she had turned against Arthas. Those decisions had led to her father's death. Arthas's fate had been worse. He had lost his soul, become the Lich King, after choosing a path down which Jaina refused to follow. She had loved her father, and genuinely grieved for him when he fell. Her love for Arthas had been another kind, one she had never known before or since. Grief was too transparent a word to describe what she felt about losing him.

Varian was the most recent in what Jaina, in her bleak mood, suddenly saw as a series of hopeless causes. Not only had he refused to accept her counsel at every turn when it came to relations with the Horde, but now he had decided to crown her the Lady of Winter Veil, a title she hadn't asked for and didn't want. He'd all but proposed to her last night, then all but threatened both herself and her city when she'd shown signs of refusal. So, as Aegwynn had predicted, she risked an invasion that would likely destroy Theramore. The thought of all those refugees she'd saved from Lordaeron finding death at the hands of their own king was more than she could stand.

She _would_ refuse, though. During the Third War, she had fought and led with little to guide her except her guts and heart. Doing so had taught her that her instincts were usually good. Wisdom had come with experience in matters of both war and peace. Jaina had lived by that twin moral compass for so long that she couldn't choose another way. If many would consider it tragic that one with her talents and prospects would find war with the enigmatic and handsome Varian Wrynn preferable to marriage to him, at least they must admit she had good precedent.

The inevitability of what she had done and must still do struck her with so profound a sense of melancholy that she bowed her shoulders and slumped to her knees, unmindful of the deep snow. She stared blindly across the scarred gray plain below her hill for a long moment, struggling against a weight that never got any easier to bear with time. She crouched there, a despairing thing, and forgot about time and responsibility.

Some time later, denied the catharsis she'd hoped to find in her morning ride, Jaina realized that she must go on nevertheless, breathing, thinking, doing her best. Numb and stiff with cold, she climbed painfully to her feet and remounted Featherpaw, who was licking ice crystals from between his scaly forefeet. With a relieved warble, the gryphon spread his wings. Even a stupid animal knew the danger of being so near to the Citadel, and Featherpaw was not stupid.

They had a headwind most of the way back to the Tournament grounds. Morning slipped toward noon, and Featherpaw, already tired after a hard flight with an empty belly, began to lose altitude. Jaina was concerned enough to rest him at the southern border of Sindragosa's Fall, in a small valley protected from the worst of the wind. The gryphon landed heavily and she dismounted, leading him to a small defile in the rocks at one side of the valley that provided some extra shelter from the weather. She stripped off her heavy coat and used it to rub down the trembling white body.

"Easy, boy, easy," she soothed, glad to have Featherpaw's well-being to take her mind off her low mood. She had never allowed self-pity to govern her actions, and wasn't about to start, even if the choices before her were more difficult than ever.

Featherpaw snorted and pressed his smooth, hard beak into her palm in gratitude. Jaina scratched his shoulder where he liked it best; the beast leaned into her, knocking her back against the rock. She smiled at her mount and hugged him, grateful for his simple animal company. She'd started to shrug back into her coat when she heard voices, growing louder, approaching through the wind.

Quickly, Jaina slung her arm around Featherpaw's neck and shrank back into the shallow crack of rock, pulling the gryphon with her. She whispered up a fire spell; her fingers flared orange with the magic and she closed her fists quickly to snuff its light. The Cult of the Damned frequently practiced their rituals around the crater and frozen lakes of Sindragosa's Fall; they might very well visit this valley, too. While Jaina was confident of her ability to defend herself, she wanted to take no chances, not out here, alone in enemy territory. The voices were coming from the north, but the narrow little gorge she'd squeezed into prevented her from seeing in any direction but west. Jaina urged Featherpaw further back under the rock, then squirmed in front of the gryphon to listen and wait.

The voices had stopped, but now between gusts of wind she could hear the tromp of heavy boots through crisp snow. They seemed headed right for her; Jaina willed herself to stay where she was until they were close enough that a spell couldn't miss.

The footsteps stopped. For a few seconds, there was no sound at all but the wind. Then came a muffled, crunching thud, as if something heavy had been forcefully driven into the snow. Featherpaw stirred uneasily at Jaina's back.

After a pause, someone spoke. The words were orcish, and Jaina was so surprised by this that she forgot, at first, to convert them. She'd learned a good deal of the language from Thrall and his people, and had found it strange, at first, when she'd been told that Thrall spoke it with the same accent she did, before she'd remembered that humans had raised him. The words she heard now were guttural and harsh; it had been a long time since she'd heard orcish spoken so readily, but her mind caught up at last and belatedly began to translate.

"...do not like this deception, I tell you. It goes against everything I am, everything our people are." The speaker, whoever he was, used hard, fast, angry syllables to emphasize his point.

A different voice answered the first, in a smoother and deeper tone. "Tell me what other choice you would have me make that would uphold your honor. You agreed to fight in the first place. This decision will only lose you status in Tirion's eyes."

"I care nothing for that human and his conception of honor!" the first orc spat. "Weak, cowardly, always making empty promises and signing paper treaties. That is more _your_ department."

There was brief silence, during which Jaina realized with a shock that stiffened her spine that the second speaker was Thrall. She hazarded, then, that the first one must be Garrosh. He was certainly speaking the way Garrosh usually did. She bit her lip. If they spotted her now, no defense would sound believable, much less innocent. Despite the danger, Jaina inched forward until she could peer around the icy stone. The two orcs, one green-skinned and one rust-red, were scarcely five yards away. Garrosh's back was to her, but she could see Thrall's face. The Warchief leaned on the haft of the black mace Doomhammer; its head was half-buried in the permafrost. Garrosh glared defiantly at the other orc, arms crossed and feet braced wide.

"Be careful, Garrosh," Thrall finally said in a flat tone. "What I do, I do for all our people."

"You do _nothing!_" Grom Hellscream's son uncrossed his arms, flexing his fingers in agitation. "Instead of preparing our people for war, for glory, you bring the best of us up to this trivial human settlement to play games."

Wisely ignoring the fact that the Argent Crusade belonged to all races—Thrall was not one to split hairs, a trait Jaina admired—he continued implacably, "Yet you agreed to take part in them."

"Yes, stupidly, thinking they would be a test of true might." Garrosh threw his hands up, the muscles in his arms bulging through his tunic. "I thought I would be able to fight that arrogant king, add a few more scars to his face, teach him what it means to be a true gladiator." Red-eyed, Garrosh glared at Thrall, and his voice grew mocking. "Do you even remember what that's like anymore? Or have your relations with humans tamed even that out of you?"

Thrall, to Jaina's intense relief, didn't rise to the bait. "You can still face the king of Stormwind. That hasn't changed."

Garrosh laughed harshly. "Face him for what? Only to draw first blood, then be paraded like a stud on sale and made to toss a crown to Scout Manslayer? I can have her ten different ways without that."

Thrall's eyes blazed, and his hands flexed around the mace handle, but he made no other move. His voice was under control when he spoke. "Again, we come back to my solution. If you see another way, tell me. I'm waiting. But we need to decide now, and return with a plan before we're missed."

"Yes, I have another plan, wise leader." Garrosh sneered at Thrall's impassivity. "Mount an attack on Icecrown Citadel. Now. Surprise the enemy in his lair, take down the Lich King forever. We've mustered a great force here; even your precious Alliance has shown up with their best fighters. Why waste that chasing each other around a jousting ring? Let's attack!"

Thrall stared at Garrosh while the wind blew a sudden gust and blew locks of his heavy black hair into disarray. Then he threw back his head and laughed. "Indeed, Garrosh. That would solve all my problems. You could lead the charge, just like Dranosh Saurfang the last time a combined force of Horde and Alliance attacked the Citadel." His lips pulled back from fanglike tusks. "Think! We're in the shadow of Aldur'thar! The eyes on top of its towers see everything we do. By extension, so does the Lich King. Have you gone mad from demon blood, that you think an assault from here will go unnoticed and unprepared for?"

Garrosh snarled at the insult and crouched in the snow, gathering his legs under him. For a second, Jaina thought he was about to attack Thrall; without thinking about it, her dormant fire spell flared up again in her cupped hands as she prepared to defend her friend.

She had to dampen it hastily as Thrall reacted quicker than a blink, stepping in and laying both huge hands on Garrosh's shoulders, pushing him down, grounding him in the snow. "Think," he told the younger orc again in a voice of adamant. "Be patient. Let your anger at the injustice we suffer from the Lich King feed your will to overcome. Don't let it consume you." He waited a beat; Jaina felt as tense as a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest twinge. Then Thrall relaxed his hands, his blue eyes still boring into Garrosh's, and stepped back. "We will take the battle to the Lich King, I promise you. But I will not lose a single orc to rash thinking, especially not you. The Horde needs you, Garrosh. So do I."

For a long moment, the son of Grom Hellscream stared up at the huge orc his father had chosen to command the Horde. At last, he broke eye contact, lowered his head, and nodded. "Very well, Thrall. I'll wait. And we'll do this Tournament thing your way." Suddenly he looked up again, his expression fierce. "But Thrall—if you don't hold to your promise, I'll challenge you again. I almost beat you last time. Don't forget that."

Thrall nodded. "I won't. Now, before we risk neglecting our people again like we did that day..." he paused, giving Garrosh time to remember the attack on Orgrimmar that had happened during their duel. "Let's get back to them." With a heave of his shoulders, he pulled the Doomhammer out of the frozen ground and slung its ice-encrusted head over his back. Garrosh made his way back toward the path out of the valley, but Thrall tarried a moment longer, scanning the land and sky to the southwest. Jaina held her breath as his gaze flickered over her hiding place, but just then Garrosh turned with an impatient sound and Thrall broke off to join him. Together, the two orcs trudged north out of the valley, heading back to the Tournament.

Jaina sank to the ground, her mind whirling. She was relieved that Thrall had managed to avoid a direct confrontation with his adviser, but what about this deception Garrosh had spoken of, that seemed to be Thrall's idea? It niggled at Jaina's mind, but whichever way she turned it, she couldn't make any sense of what he was planning. She would not, _could_ not, believe anything sinister of Thrall. But Garrosh? How far would Thrall go to appease him?

It worried her, too, to see the two of them so close to outright battle with each other. Thrall's Horde was the most unified force in all of Azeroth. If his leadership was as precarious as Garrosh claimed, what hope did any of them have against the Lich King?

"Enough," Jaina said firmly. She gave herself a little shake. Idle speculation, especially about things that hadn't happened yet, would do her no good. Besides, it was past time to get back to the Tournament herself. Aegwynn would be worried, and probably hopping mad.

As she led Featherpaw from the niche in the rock, Jaina wondered whether she should admit to Thrall what she'd heard. She and the Warchief had been nothing if not honest with each other since the day they'd met. Although, she reflected, burying her cold hands in the gryphon's warm neck feathers, if Varian's demands on her time kept up, she was unlikely to get within spitting distance of Thrall for the next three days.

Sometimes, even Jaina Proudmoore was dead wrong. Thrall met her at the stables as she was unsaddling Featherpaw.

A young dwarf dressed in the livery of the Argent Crusade squires came down the narrow aisle between the stalls with a pail overflowing with meat scraps for the gryphon's manger. Jaina removed the last of the girths, thanked the squire, and extended her hand for the pail. The light from the ceiling lamps behind the squire was suddenly blocked by a massive form. Saddle in hand, Jaina looked up to see Thrall approaching along the aisle. The squire took one look at the huge orc, yelped, and dropped his burden. He ducked with an apprentice's well-timed instinct for avoiding trouble, and dashed the other way down the aisle.

Thrall stopped outside the stall's half-door. Jaina watched him, wide-eyed, saying nothing because she was unsure how much he knew and wanted him to speak first. "Jaina." His accentless Common was tinged with something that Jaina thought sounded like relief. That made her guilt about eavesdropping worse.

"Thrall, it's good to see you." She didn't have to affect surprise, nor the self-deprecating laugh that followed. "Or, at least, to talk to you. It's been too long." The truth of that came through in her voice without her meaning it to. The communications runestone she kept beside her pillow hadn't glowed for months.

"It has." He regarded her for a moment from beneath heavy brows. Unable, in her guilt, to stand the directness of his gaze, Jaina moved to hang the saddle on its peg. "I suspect we've both been busy dealing with unpleasant internal affairs," he added.

Her hands slipped from the saddle; she glanced sidelong at him. "That's probably true."

Thrall next words caught her unprepared. "I'd have ridden out with you this morning, if you'd asked." He reached down and picked up the discarded pail, peered at the contents, and handed it to Jaina.

She took it automatically, drawing a sharp breath. "You saw me?" She dumped the pail into Featherpaw's manger. With a contented snort, the gryphon shouldered her aside and began to eat.

"I did." Thrall's teeth gleamed whitely in the semidarkness of the stables. Jaina was suddenly aware of his proximity, looming over the stall door, preventing her from leaving. She mentally amended that, certain that his courtesy would compel him to move back; all she had to do was ask. It wasn't Thrall who made her feel trapped, but her own conscience.

"There was—I didn't sleep well last night. I wanted to get out early, to clear my head."

"It would have been better to take someone with you. Icecrown is hardly the safest place on Azeroth."

Jaina bristled at his words, even though his tone had been neutral. "You of all people should know I can take care of myself."

Thrall had the grace to incline his head. "Yes," he said, but now she thought there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "But still, in times of trouble, it can be better to confide in a friend than to wander alone."

Jaina said nothing. If there was something particular he wanted to know, he was going to have to come right out and ask her. She was in no mood to play games. For that matter, she was in no mood to admit how much she'd been touched by his unexpected thoughtfulness. After a moment, Thrall sighed and shifted. His black armor creaked. "I am always here, if you need to unburden yourself, Miss Proudmoore." He hesitated another moment, but when she merely nodded, smarting at the gentle reprimand he'd given her by reverting to her formal name but not trusting herself to speak, he turned and walked away.

Featherpaw finished his meal and came over to nuzzle her between the shoulder blades. Jaina was trembling a little, she realized; partly in relief that she hadn't been found out, and partly from outrage at Thrall, who had the audacity to ask her to confide in him when he was clearly keeping his own secrets. She wasn't sure what to make of his insightful concern for her, and didn't want to muddle her thoughts trying to figure it out.

She set off in search of Aegwynn. Luck was with her; she spotted her chamberlain at the feast tables, holding court with Ironforge. By all appearances, her chamberlain found the company of Magni and Brann Bronzebeard most agreeable. Seated between the copper-haired dwarves, Aegwynn was thoroughly enjoying the contents of the tall tankard before her and a plate heaped with blue tubers and talbuk steak. Setting down her fork, Aegwynn rose and beckoned for her to join them.

It proved to be just what she needed to erase the morning's stresses from her mind. With a smile, she slid into the seat on Magni's other side. Although Aegwynn peered at her shrewdly, she said nothing about Jaina being missing half the day. Jaina was grateful for it, and spent a pleasant few hours in dwarven company. The sun reached and passed its zenith without any sign of Varian, but Jaina found her neck tensing in anticipation anyway, knowing that seeing him again was inevitable.

A herald rode by, announcing that practice combat trials would be held the next afternoon, to allow the rivals to prepare for the Tournament. All guests were invited to watch. Afterward, there would be a supper honoring the champions. Jaina excused herself with thanks from the Bronzebeards, assuring them she would see them at dinner that night. Aegwynn rose and followed her into the Silver Covenant Pavilion and their private tent. Inside, Jaina told her everything—Varian's declaration and veiled threats the night before, her morning ride, her accidental eavesdrop on Thrall and Garrosh, and her chat with Thrall in the stables immediately after Jaina returned from her ride.

Aegwynn listened in silence. At last she said, "I think you're right about Thrall. I can't imagine him plotting anything that would harm the Tournament or the Argent Crusade. Probably, as you say, he's putting some scheme in motion to curb Garrosh while seeming to appease him." The old woman shook her head. "King Wrynn is another matter. You know what I think about that. But for you, I wonder, is there something else complicating things?"

Jaina furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," replied Aegwynn bluntly, "Do you still love Arthas?"

Jaina started. "Arthas—what does that have to do with Varian?" Aegwynn just stared levelly at her until Jaina averted her gaze. Aegwynn knew too well what it had to do with Varian; there was no pretending otherwise. Jaina thought back to her mental state that morning. "I don't know," she said bleakly. "If any part of him still exists, separate from the Lich King, I would try to save him if I could. Maybe that's love." She shook her head. "But my love couldn't dissuade him from killing everyone in Stratholme, even when he was just a man."

"Well, girl, that's part of the problem. Arthas was never 'just' a man. Neither is Varian Wrynn, come to that."

Jaina watched the flames alternately glow and fade on the coals of the low brazier in the center of the tent. "I'm not a fool, Aegwynn. I know when to cut my losses." Even as she spoke, she felt her resolve strengthen. "I would try to save Arthas, but not blindly. Not at the cost of my people."

Quietly, Aegwynn said, "I should remind you, as your counselor, that there will likely be a cost to your people if you choose to cut your losses with Stormwind."

Jaina's hands clenched into fists. "I won't let that happen."

Aegwynn narrowed her eyes. "What are you saying? You haven't agreed to marry Varian, have you?"

"No. No!" Jaina shook her head emphatically. "But I won't allow him to use Theramore for his own ends."

"Dustwallow Marsh doesn't exactly have the resources to support your brave words," Aegwynn pointed out wryly. They had had this conversation before, always without resolution.

"No, but I do have allies." Jaina dropped this new thought into the old pattern so quietly that Aegwynn had to lean forward to hear. No sooner were the words out than her chamberlain sat back with a frown.

"You think to call upon Orgrimmar for aid?"

"If it comes to that. Yes." Jaina's words sounded braver than she felt.

Aegwynn watched her for a long moment. "And do you truly believe Thrall will help you, knowing that it will mean open war with the Alliance?"

"It's a gamble. But he knows I would do the same for him." She swallowed. Aegwynn waited a moment, but the archmage added nothing else.

"Well, then." Jaina thought that Aegwynn sounded satisfied, although the old chamberlain's face gave away nothing. "Well," she repeated, and nodded to herself a couple of times. "To tackle a problem closer at hand, what will you do if Varian sets the Winter Veil crown on your head?"

Jaina sighed. "I thought about that this morning. I'm going to refuse it."

"With all respect, Jaina, that's a profoundly stupid idea."

The archmage didn't exactly stick out her bottom lip, but her voice was certainly petulant. "Why is that?"

"Because of what Fordring said." Aegwynn snorted. "He's got a gift of words, that man, no denying. He's put it into everyone's head that you—or whoever is chosen—are supposed to be a paradigm of the strength and mercy of the mortal soul." Her sonorous tones so perfectly mimicked the Highlord's that Jaina laughed despite herself. "You'll look mean spirited, or worse, if you turn it down. Jaina Proudmoore, enemy of the people." Aegwynn shook her head. "Not the best epitaph."

"Well then, I have to hope Garrosh will best him."

"From what you've told me, it seems that Garrosh might be trying to back out of the tournament. Who, then? Brann Bronzebeard? Too impetuous. Bain Bloodhoof? Too green. None of the other entrants have the dedication or the fanaticism of yonder king. He was a gladiator himself all those years he was missing. Nobody else on the roster can claim that advantage."

Jaina groaned. "It's too much. Let me solve one problem at a time, Aegwynn, please." She bent over her scroll case, effectively ending the conversation.

She and Aegwynn dressed warmly and joined the crowd massed around the Argent Valiants' Ring to watch the the Tournament rivals practice the next day. The participants were bareheaded, clad in armor plate. Tomorrow, they would be helmeted in accordance with Tournament rules, identifiable only by their tabards and the barding on their mounts. Even then, they would be known only by which city they represented, until they revealed themselves at the end of the tournament. It was part of the charm and mystery of the Tournament, and kept the rivals guessing as much as the onlookers. There were about 50 participants altogether, four or five of the greatest champions handpicked from each of Azeroth's capitals.

It took Jaina only a moment to pick out Varian. Even if she hadn't seen his face, his style was distinctive: at once reckless and dominant. He hadn't been idly boasting when he claimed he could win, then. Her heart sinking, she looked around for Garrosh, but didn't see him. The orc champions were finely drilled and powerful, but even they couldn't match Varian's skilled maneuverings.

She and Aegwynn retired early, supping alone in their tent. Few words were spoken; what had to be said had been said, and all that remained was to wait and see.

Midwinter's Eve dawned fine and bright. An overnight storm gave way to sunlight that glittered on the fresh snow. The sense of anticipation had tripled. Children darted around the grounds, their piercingly sweet voices laughing and calling to one another. Most of them, and many of their parents, too, bore the colors, tabards, and flags of their chosen favorites. The festival guests streamed through the vendors' stalls, bought hot drinks and food, then headed for the Ring of Champions in the hope of getting a good seat early on.

Jaina walked with Aegwynn to the nobles' box just before noon. It was already crowded, but the seats were padded and considerably more comfortable than the tiered wooden benches outside the box. Tyrande Whisperwind stepped past on her way to her seat, and paused to exchange courtesies with them. It wasn't so bad, Jaina reflected, settling back on her cushions. As long as she didn't allow herself to dwell on the future too much, she might even enjoy this.

Trumpets blew, the sound fine and silvery in the cold, still air. Everyone looked toward the high platform at the west end of the ring, where Tirion Fordring stood bracketed by heralds. Clearing his throat, he raised his arms and smiled as the echoes died away across the plain. He greeted them, and explained the rules of the first day's entertainment. The joust would consist of elimination rounds, narrowing the competitors down one by one. Each champion would fight in three matches, with only those who won two or more advancing to the next round.

"Once there are just sixteen champions standing," Fordring continued, "The Tournament will conclude for the day. Don't forget about the Midwinter Eve feast tonight—Greatfather Winter is scheduled to make a special appearance for the children." He smiled. "The final four rounds will begin tomorrow at noon. The only change will be that a single loss means elimination from the competition. The champion who wins the final joust will be declared the winner." With a flourish, the Highlord dropped his arms. "Let the rivals take the field!"

They rode out proudly, their mounts barded in bright and streaming colors, squires bustling behind juggling the long lances and heavy shields. Jaina turned and scanned the faces around her in the box. She sat directly behind the proud blood elves, with the draenei behind her and a number of the night elves to each side. On the top tier, wise old Cairne Bloodhoof leaned forward with his honor guard from Thunder Bluff. The orcs sat below the Tauren; after a brief search, Jaina located Thrall in his distinctive black armor, his head hooded by a thick cloak, sitting with some of his Kor'kron warriors. She thought he was looking in her direction and raised her hand in greeting, but if he saw her, he didn't respond.

Suddenly, Aegwynn seized her by the upper arm. Out in the ring, some commotion had arrested many of the circling, armored riders; all heads were turned toward the gate, where Tirion had descended from the platform along with the Tournament's Seneschal and Masters at Arms. They had barred the way of a knight who had arrived late to the competition. Whoever it was sat astride an enormous, mottled-green raptor, but was too broad to be a troll. Beast and rider were unadorned, but over his scuffed armor, the stranger wore a tattered black tabard bearing a red device of a chain linking two irons. He sat his mount quietly and spoke through his dented visor to Tirion.

The Highlord conferred at length with the Seneschal, who questioned her Masters at Arms. Throughout the exchange, the stranger waited patiently, motionless on the back of his ugly spotted reptile. Finally Tirion, with a curious blend of doubt and respect in his face, stepped back and waved at the stranger to enter. The raptor trotted unconcernedly into the ring. No squire followed the destitute-looking newcomer. The other champions, after glancing in mild curiosity at him, lost interest almost at once. The Tournament was by invitation only, and if Tirion had let the stranger in, he must know who it was. It was no concern of theirs; after all, most of them were unrecognizable to each other beneath the heavy armor.

The guests were another matter. Unlike the champions, they paid close attention to the strange knight. Although the question circled the stands more than once, nobody seemed to know of any outlying town or village that used the device of red chains on black. Many expressed the opinion that while the newcomer added spice to the mystery, his lowly appearance made it unlikely that he would fare well against the mighty company gathered in the ring.

The trumpets blew a single blast to signal the start of the Tournament.

As many as three pairs of combatants could be in the ring at the same time: one pair near the eastern judges, another with the central judges, and the final pair to the west. No barriers were set up, except for the stout outer fence of the ring itself. Awareness of one's surroundings was therefore key—a collision would not only cause a champion to lose points, but risked injury.

A great cheer went up from the packed stands as the first six champions met in a clash of wood on metal. Many of the onlookers came to their feet in excitement. They shouted encouragement to their favorites, stomped and clapped, and in general enjoyed making as much noise as they could. The first lot was drawn entirely at random, and the first three pairs of rivals consisted of an undead knight and a draenei, two humans, and a gnome and a tauren. This last duo drew the most attention, and while the huge tauren was ultimately victorious, the gnome proved herself quick and strong in the face of such odds and lost by a single point. She rode off to a standing ovation.

As each match was decided, new competitors entered the ring in a steady flow. Mounted on all manner of beasts, the rivals circled each other at trot or canter, shields up and lances forward, before deciding how to charge. The object was to break the other's shield, disarm her, or force her off her mount. Points were earned for direct strikes and lost for obstructing another match. The first to reach ten points was declared the winner. Dismounting one's opponent was an automatic win.

Jaina lost track of the ebb and flow of winners and losers, but she knew exactly when Varian took the field for the first time. His fearlessness and grace were as identifiable as his face. He rode out on a black destrier and dismounted his opponent, a Darkspear troll, in the first charge. Varian trotted off the field to rallying cries from the Stormwind section and, indeed, most of the Alliance. In the box, Jaina and Aegwynn exchanged a glance.

"He made that look easy," Aegwynn remarked.

"For him, it was." Jaina bit her lip.

Onto the field now rode the impoverished-looking knight on his big, ungainly raptor. His opponent was a tall night elf, who looked lean and proud astride his frostsaber. The elf lowered his lance and charged, catching the bulky stranger off guard. In the last instant, the stranger turned and managed to catch the lance point square on his shield, but it cost him his balance and he was nearly unseated. The raptor bellowed and staggered; its rider tugged on the reins and maneuvered the beast out of range, finding the stirrups again and returning to meet the elf lance for lance.

A wild cheer went up from the trolls' section. Even though the knight resembled an orc more than a troll, they had apparently claimed him as a favorite. _Vasalla, Vasalla,_ they cried, which meant "humility" in their tongue. The word caught, and soon half the stands were cheering for him using the trolls' nickname.

"Looks like we have our underdog hero of the Tournament," Aegwynn muttered to Jaina. Both women followed his match with the night elf; it was a close and hard-fought joust. Vasalla earned himself another notch of respect in the eyes of the crowd with his surprising agility, which more than once saved him from the smaller, quicker elf. But the elf pressed back, until finally he had his opponent pinned against the rails of the ring and it looked like the match was over. However, with a complex and sudden maneuver that took everyone by surprise, Vasalla deftly slid his lance point beneath the elf's shield and twisted it up under the gorget, so that the sharp tip rested against the sinewy neck.

The elf signaled surrender, and the judges awarded Vasalla the final point. The crowd went wild.

"Maybe it is Garrosh, after all," Jaina observed as Vasalla rode out of the ring, head down and shoulders heaving.

Aegwynn's keen eyes never left the knight. She pursed her mouth. "If that's Garrosh Hellscream, then I'm the Banshee Queen," she retorted. "Garrosh isn't the type to leave a trick like that in reserve. He's more of the 'damn the mana bombs, full speed ahead' school of combat." The chamberlain turned to regard the archmage. "Mark this, Jaina. That sorry-looking fellow is going to give Varian a run."

Jaina gave a disbelieving snort. "Much as I'd like to believe that, you can't be right. He barely managed to win at all!"

"Maybe," said Aegwynn with weary patience. "Or maybe that's how he wanted it to look. When you've seen as much combat as I have, you learn to watch for things that don't make sense. And that orc is a bundle of contradictions."

Jaina frowned. "But if not Garrosh...are you sure he's an orc?"

"Or she. But it's mighty big for a female orc, and not the right shape for troll or tauren." Aegwynn tapped the side of her head with her fingers and grinned. "Yep. My money's on orc."

Jaina turned again in her seat and sought out the Orgrimmar detail. Thrall still sat impassively among those of his scouts who weren't participating in the jousts. There was still no sign of Garrosh. Maybe, thought Jaina doubtfully, seven hundred years of living was finally beginning to affect her chamberlain's mind. Tirion wasn't likely to make an exception to the invitation-only rule, so Vasalla had to be one of the orc champions invited from Durotar or Nagrand. But if he wasn't Garrosh, who was he?

To nobody's surprise, Varian Wrynn won all of his matches easily and became the first of the champions to guarantee himself a spot in the final sixteen. Vasalla lost the second fight of his first round, but rallied to win the third and advance. He won two out of his next three matches as well, and at the end of the day stood as the dark horse along with Varian and fourteen other knights on the high platform. They received their due for all their work that day: the guests screamed themselves hoarse.

After the heroes quit the ring, the crowd dispersed, chattering excitedly about the day's highlights and anticipating the Midwinter's Eve feast. Aegwynn returned to their tent to prepare, but Jaina, with a little time to spare and her conscience twinging, slipped away in search of Thrall. She found him after half an hour, emerging from the Sunreaver Pavilion, and hailed him. The Warchief of the Horde turned toward her and frowned briefly. "Miss Proudmoore," he said, all formality, as she reached him.

"Thrall." The words poured out of her in a rush. "I wanted to apologize. You surprised me the other day, but it's important--I need to tell you how much I value our friendship. And I thank you for offering to be my confidant." Unsure what else to say, unable as ever to read his impassive green features and discomfited by her own outburst, Jaina waited.

He looked quizzically down at her and said at last, "Are you on your way to the feast?" When she nodded, he offered her his arm. "Walk with me, then. We can take the long way."

Jaina placed her hand on his forearm, unused to being so close to the massive orc in such a formal setting. Thrall guided them on a broad widdershins circuit of the grounds, walking in measured, careful steps. They were both quiet at first, adjusting to this new role of dinner escort. That was especially difficult for Jaina, who was so used to seeing Thrall in battle or poised for battle that she had trouble reconciling this princely courtesy with the warrior she'd known for so long. This close to him, she could feel the restless strength of his body and spirit. He had about him a more electric aura of power than even Varian possessed.

Finally Thrall looked down at her, amusement flashing briefly in his blue eyes. "Did you enjoy the entertainment this afternoon?"

A frisson of guilt ran through her, making her hand twitch on his arm. "I did," she said, and ducked her head. "But actually, I wanted to confide in you." She took a deep breath and met his level gaze. His eyes were a much darker blue than Varian's. The spark of life there was just as fierce and untamed, but tempered by wisdom and patience in a way Varian's pale eyes were not. Jaina came to the only decision she could, as she'd known she would, and spoke candidly. "The other morning, before you found me in the stables, I overheard you and Garrosh talking in that little valley below Sindragosa's Fall."

If this admission startled Thrall, he didn't show it. He continued to watch her without breaking his smooth stride. A hint of a smile touched the crags of his face, and in the twilight and torchlight he seemed almost serene. "I know," he rumbled. "What was your opinion of our discussion?"

Taken completely by surprise, Jaina stumbled. Thrall laid his other hand atop hers with warning pressure; his eyes admonished her to keep moving. Feeling lightheaded, Jaina did so. "You knew?" Her voice cracked. "But—how? And why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Thrall looked away from her to nod at a passing group of tauren, headed the other way to the feast. The headquarters of the Knights of the Ebon Blade loomed up to their left, and he steered them around it. "To answer your first question, the spirits told me you were there in the rocks. They are very good at sensing...a powerful presence." Jaina had the feeling he'd altered what he'd been going to say. "The answer to your second question is, because you didn't tell me. And you, Miss Proudmoore, were the one eavesdropping." A very real grin spread across his mouth now.

It poleaxed her. She was aware of his hand still covering hers, his stride still compelling her to keep strolling along as if they were discussing nothing more important than the weather. Somehow, her feet complied. "You still haven't answered _my_ question," Thrall continued softly. She tried to remember what his question had been. It wasn't the first time she'd been outmaneuvered by the Warchief, though, and it rattled her only for a moment. Thrall seemed to always bring out the best in her without even trying; it was as if her sense of purpose clarified whenever she spent time in his company.

"My opinion..." Jaina straightened beside him. Although she was by no means short, her head still didn't quite reach his shoulder. "It's difficult to say, because I didn't hear everything and was never sure what exactly you and Garrosh were discussing. But if you tell me there's no Orgrimmar plot to undermine the Argent Crusade, I'll believe it."

"Plot to undermine...?" Thrall's brow furrowed for a moment, then cleared abruptly. "I see." He shook his head. "No, you've misunderstood. It was something far more mundane than that, although..." he drifted off, staring up at the pennants flapping from the pavilion spires. Again, he smiled. Jaina had never seen so many smiles from the Warchief in so short a time. "I think all will become clear to you tomorrow, after the Tournament. Perhaps you and I can have a good laugh about it then."

"You don't intend to tell me now?" Jaina asked archly, with a half smile.

Thrall swerved to avoid a small but raucous group of drunken gnomes. "No," he said slowly, as if he'd really thought about it. "But trust me, you'll understand soon enough."

Jaina laughed outright. "And yet, you'd have me confide in you."

Thrall's face grew somber. "I would. Your troubles are more severe than mine. How do things stand with Varian?"

Jaina's merriment faded. She would not give everything without getting something back; that wasn't part of the deal. They turned the final corner of the long west spur of the Coliseum. Their noses were assailed with the delicious odors of cooking food. "No worse than they stand between you and Garrosh, I expect," she answered tartly.

Thrall raised his heavy brows, but at that moment they were accosted by a mingling bunch of partygoers who were all too cheerfully willing to escort the Archmage of Theramore and the Warchief of the Horde to their places at dinner. Jaina was separated from Thrall when Varian appeared and imposed himself between them with a black look for Thrall. Resigned, Jaina followed him to the table where Aegwynn was waiting.

"Are you all right, Jaina? Did he hurt you?" Varian closed his hand around her elbow like a vise, and kept it there as they sat down. Jaina twisted out of his grasp, awarding him a glare for his possessive behavior. It was time to draw the line.

"Varian," she began, "Thrall and I are friends. If you can understand and accept that, things between us will be much better. He is honorable, and he has given me more and better reasons to trust him than most of the Stormwind nobility ever have."

Varian shook his head dismissively, which made her seethe. "You're wrong, Jaina. The orcs are savage, fit only for slaughter. Thrall's veneer of civilization will wear off soon enough when the chips are down, believe me. It's the way of his kind." He spoke with fanatic conviction. Jaina, knowing he was unlikely to listen to reason in this mood, turned away without speaking.

Varian waited until they had all started eating, then tried to placate her. "Jaina, be sensible. My fight isn't with you; it never has been. Tomorrow you will be my tournament queen." His voice held a layer of velvet over steel. She gritted her teeth. While his tack was a little different tonight, his intent was unchanged from their first unpleasant supper conversation. He offered the prize, but intended to give it to her regardless of her own wishes. "I want it to be as happy and proud a moment for you as it will be for me."

Jaina stabbed her knife with unnecessary force into the tender cut of meat on her plate. A hundred retorts rose to her lips. She bit them all back. It was Midwinter, a time of peace and goodwill. Hardly the most opportune moment to lay the foundations of secession from Stormwind by meeting Varian's implacable will with her own. Aegwynn was right; she might be committed to her path, but she had to wait for the right time to take the first step. It would be easier if the road didn't seem so difficult and lonely, but then, she'd never sought the easy way out.

Once she was sure her face was composed, Jaina glanced over at him. "I am sure it will be a grand moment for the people of Azeroth," she said. Varian compressed his lips, knowing she was being evasive, but he didn't pursue it. That meant, she was sure, that he counted it a victory. Jaina spent the rest of the evening watching the children gather around the Smokywood Pastures' equivalent of Greatfather Winter to receive treats and gifts, reminding herself to smile and laugh occasionally. The lifting of spirits she'd felt in Thrall's company had evaporated.

She slept badly that night, and entertained a brief but futile wish to skip the Tournament finale altogether and spend Midwinter's Day in quiet contemplation at Antonidas's shrine in Dalaran. In the end, she dressed in white and purple mageweave and went quietly along with Aegwynn to face the inevitable. In her mind was only one thought: she would accept the crown, but her resistance would begin immediately afterward. It was the furthest she was willing to go.

Midwinter was another fine day, not quite so bright as the one previous. For Jaina, it might as well have been storming. She waited with her heart dropping in dread as the sixteen champions took the field for the final elimination. Today, the clash and ring of combat, the smell of cold air and animal flesh, and the breathless uncertainty of each outcome were dulled for her. She endured the sight of Varian besting each of his opponents. Even the dogged resistance to defeat shown by the orc Vasalla failed to stiffen her sinews or summon up her blood.

Jaina's mood notwithstanding, those final jousts met and exceeded everyone else's expectations. Each one was so well matched that they went on far longer than most of the previous day's battles, save for those won by Varian Wrynn. He moved like a wraith, terrible and relentless, wearing down each opponent and striking decisively as soon as weakness presented itself. At the goblins' wagering stalls, he became the heavy favorite to win.

On the field, Vasalla's mount stumbled and nearly fell beneath the huge feet of a tauren champion's kodo mount. The crowd sucked in its breath; but then the raptor emerged upright, kicking with its powerful hind legs and ducking its head to regain its balance. Vasalla flailed with his lance as if struggling to maintain his own balance. The lance butt struck the tauren powerfully between the shoulders as the kodo roared past, overbalancing and toppling her from the saddle. The tauren rolled clear of her mount, shook her horns as if clearing her head, then removed her helmet, accepting defeat.

Stunned silence reigned for a moment, followed by an avalanche of sound: applause, cheering, piercing whistles. With that accidental-looking blow, Vasalla had earned himself the right to face Varian Wrynn in the final match.

Each of the two champions was allowed a brief rest while his mount and equipment were checked for soundness. After a few minutes, the herald announced the two champions: "For your entertainment, ladies and gentlemen, to determine the winner of the Tournament of Winter Veil, I give you the champion of Stormwind and—as you have named him—Vasalla, the knight of humility." With a flourish of trumpets, each champion rode out from opposite ends of the ring. "Fight well, and fight honorably!" the herald cried, and lifted the gold, silver, and black flag to officially begin the match.

Jaina's teeth worried the inside of her cheek as thousands of guests leaned forward as one, hardly breathing as combat was joined. She witness the first clash: a chaos of flashing shields, panting mounts, and thundering blows as Varian and Vasalla came together, each striving, not giving an inch, then broke apart with neither gaining the upper hand. They circled on the frozen ground, destrier and raptor scuffling in the snow and leather creaking as each rider repositioned his seat for the next charge.

Varian spurred his horse; the stallion rose to its hind legs with a squeal and leaped forward, coming so quickly that the orc had little time to react. He ducked his head and took Varian's lance in the center of his shield, but the impact shattered the device and left Vasalla with nothing but metal shards dangling from leather straps. The raptor staggered and leapt away. Vasalla's supporters, who were many despite the odds, let out a collective groan as the king leaped ahead by five points for a partial disarm, halfway to winning.

Varian wheeled his charger sharply and came back again, giving no quarter, refusing to allow his opponent to regain his balance now that he had the advantage. The horse plowed into the raptor, almost taking the reptile down; it braced its powerful hind legs and roared in defiance. The collision between the two animals had hooked the leading edge of Varian's stirrup to the raptor's girths, however, and for a moment the rivals were locked together, too close to use the lances effectively. Varian raised his shield and used it batter Vasalla's shoulder, denting the armor. Vasalla retaliated by grabbing Varian's lance-butt in one massive hand. With a single twist, he ripped it free of the king's grip and cast it on the snowy ground.

The crowd gasped. Nobody had expected such a show of strength from Vasalla after so many near losses and lucky wins. But with Varian disarmed, the tide of battle seemed, improbably, as if it was about to turn.

Beside Jaina, Aegwynn took a quick breath and sat taller in her seat. Jaina huddled herself against the cold, and allowed herself a small bit of hope.

With a curse, Varian ripped his stirrup free and wheeled his mount again, putting distance between himself and his rival while he tried to regroup. Vasalla stayed where he was, only turning his raptor enough to face his opponent. Varian paused to take stock of the situation, shifting his shield from side to side in the first uncertainty he'd shown the entire tournament.

"Very wise of you, to disarm the stronger man," he taunted. His voice carried across the ring, over the noise of the crowd. "Enjoy the advantage, orc. It won't last."

Heads swiveled to Vasalla, the noise level diminished, and everyone waited to see how he would respond. A single thrust now, correctly placed, could get inside Varian's shield and end it. The set of Vasalla's shoulders changed, and the raptor's scaly hindquarters tensed to charge.

Vasalla inclined his head to the king. He hefted his lance, and then shocked the crowd by tossing it away. The lance struck the frozen ground, bounced, and rolled up against the railing. Vasalla's supporters gasped; those with their money and sentiments on the Stormwind king's side cheered.

Inside his helmet, Varian smiled. "No honor among thieves or gladiators, you fool," he muttered, then raised his shield, and charged. Like a black wind he came, with the cruel point at the long end of his triangular shield aimed for the center of the orc's chest. He intended to use it as a weapon against the defenseless Vasalla, who stayed where he was, presenting a square and easy target for the king. The audience groaned collectively, wondering if, after his brilliant move, Vasalla had lost his nerve and was forfeiting the final match. On the judges' platform, Tirion Fordring frowned at this unexpected development. In the nobles' box, Jaina closed her eyes to gather strength to face the consequences of Varian's victory.

The king's shield was less than a yard away, a bright spark of metal that filled Vasalla's vision. In that last desperate second, he leaned aside, much as an animal leans in mid-spring. The raptor shifted with his weight and Varian flashed past on his destrier. Surprise that anyone could move so fast registered in his eyes through the narrow visor slit. The quiescent Vasalla was suddenly a blur of motion. He whipped his arm around, snagging Varian's elbow and locking tight. He gripped his mount hard between his thighs and set his body against the shock of inertia, and in the next instant ripped Varian cleanly out of the saddle.

The king's weight and trajectory nearly pulled Vasalla loose. A roar of effort tore from his throat and he slid halfway down the raptor's side, but Varian was free of his horse. The orc let go, shaking back his arm and dropping the king with a thump to the frozen and trampled earth. Vasalla slung his other arm around the raptor's neck and pulled himself upright on its back, panting from the surge of exertion that finishing move had required.

Varian staggered to his feet, roaring in disbelief and outrage. Jaina sank back in her chair, weak with relief, her heart stuttering. The crowd surged toward the ring, stamping and screaming; the noise was incredible. Quickly, Tirion sent his guards down to the field to calm the king of Stormwind, who looked as likely to tear off the orc victor's head as remove his own helmet. The scene was sheer chaos for a few moments, with squires dashing around, Crusade patrollers bodily restraining the king, women throwing flowers and favors into the ring, and the herald trying in vain to proclaim the tournament winner over all the hubbub.

Gradually, order was restored. Varian, looking poisonous, ripped off his helmet and stalked to the judges' platform. He turned an unwinking and brooding glare on the still-anonymous rival who had beaten him fairly. Jaina felt a little sorry for him despite herself. It was difficult enough for Varian's pride to bear the loss of the kind of fight in which he excelled. To lose to an orc would be salt in his wound. It had to be Garrosh. There was simply nobody else capable of beating Varian. Sitting erect by her side, Aegwynn kept her own counsel, but there was the hint of a smile on the old Guardian's face.

Calls of "Show yourself!" and "Make him take off his helmet!" began to ring from the grandstand. Tirion came to the center of the ring, up to the raptor's heaving flanks. Vasalla still sat on his back, but now he bent his head to regard the Highlord.

Tirion smiled. "Well done to our victor!" he cried in a voice pitched to carry across to the crowd. He gestured to the watching multitude. "You hear them! It's time they learned who their champion is. Remove your helmet, sir."

Vasalla shook his head. Before Tirion could react, he pointed to his cast-down lance. Tirion picked it up and handed it to him; the orc's massive fist grasped the butt and Vasalla raised the point skyward, saluting the crowd. Their reply threatened to crack the sky. What a thrill he had given them! What a hero he was! They loved him intensely in that moment, regardless of his identity. Vasalla leaned down in the saddle and spoke quietly to Tirion. The Highlord listened, nodded, and gestured for the Masters at Arms to attend him.

They came, bearing between them a circlet woven of gold and silver, forged to resemble the leaves and berries of a holly tree. Tirion lifted it high, then slid it over the lance point as Vasalla lowered it to him. "Our champion says," he announced, "That he will crown the Lady of Winter Veil first. It's an unusual request, but there's no precedent to refuse him. Will you allow it?"

They shouted that they would. Tirion smiled.

"Then please, ladies, come forward to the barrier. Gentlemen, make way for the ladies, please."

Aegwynn nudged Jaina's side. Still weak with surprise and relief, she rose obediently and walked to the ringside, standing in relative unconcern now with the human, orc, troll, elf, undead, gnome, tauren, draenei, and dwarf females who crowded at the fence. There wasn't enough room for all of them, even given the large circumference of the ring. They waited, five deep, and it felt so wonderful to know that she wouldn't be the one chosen that Jaina stayed in the rear, finally able to enjoy the anticipation of the moment. She smiled with the others as she watched Vasalla pace his raptor slowly around the perimeter of the ring. His head turned from side to side as he studied the many and varied feminine faces.

Twice he circled, unable to either come to a decision or find the one he sought. Halfway through the third circuit he slowed further, then stopped. The ring grew quiet, save for the high banners snapping in the wind. Vasalla's battered helmet swiveled to regard the cluster of orcs standing in front of and to Jaina's left. The lance point dipped; the gleaming wrought-holly crown slipped forward a few inches. One of the orcs, directly beneath the tip, raised her hands.

Vasalla raised the lance ever so slightly and continued to swing it to his left, tantalizingly close but still out of reach. A nervous titter swept through those closest, but nobody else tried to claim the crown. He held them captivated.

After a pause, the lance point dropped smoothly lower. The shining crown slid down the painted wood to hover, for a blink, at the sharp metal tip. The knight's eyes, shadowed beneath his visor, met Jaina's as he dropped the crown into her nerveless hands.

A swift intake of breath, followed by murmurs, that grew to clamor, rippled out from Jaina and the orc, increasing in strength until everyone was again shouting for the knight to unmask himself. For her part, Jaina felt genuine confusion. She couldn't grasp the significance of why an orc, especially Garrosh, would bestow the Winter Veil title on her. She hadn't missed the puzzling fact, too, that his eyes meeting hers hadn't looked a thing like Garrosh's.

She held the crown, still staring up at the glitter of eyes. Slowly, the champion of the Tournament of Winter Veil fumbled with his heavy gauntlets at the complex straps holding his helmet in place. At last, it came free. The crowd's excitement climbed to frenzy. He lifted the helmet away and shook out dark sweat-matted braids. The crowd's noise crested—and died to utter silence in the space of a heartbeat.

Vasalla was Thrall.

In the pandemonium that ensued seconds later—Varian slumped in disbelief against the Seneschal, who had to catch him and lower him to the ground; Tirion shouted, unheard, for order; people surged toward the box, trampling in their haste, jostling each other to get close enough to Jaina to touch her, asking them and each other what it all meant—Thrall dismounted and handed his reins to a liveryman. He closed the short distance to the stout rail. Those nearest backed hastily away to give him room. Jaina found herself suddenly alone, looking up at her ally and even friend who, she was suddenly aware, she didn't really know at all.

One by one, Thrall removed his gauntlets. His huge hands enfolded Jaina's, but he was gentle as he plucked the precious holly crown from her fingers and set it on her brow. She opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, but he shushed her by enfolding her waist between his hands and lifting her over the rail as if she weighed no more than a child. She found her feet beside him and her sense of duty came to her rescue; she smiled up at the tiers and tiers of people, then bowed to them.

Their actions helped Tirion restore a semblance of order, even if it didn't answer any questions. A huge orc pushed his way by main force out of the box, throwing back his hood to reveal red-brown skin showing in the chinks between Doomhammer's black armor. "Are you satisfied?" Garrosh asked Thrall bluntly, and when the Warchief nodded, he grunted. "Took you long enough. I'd have had Varian down in thirty seconds."

"I have no doubt." Thrall trembled a little beside Jaina; she looked up sharply and realized he was holding back laughter.

"I suppose you'll want your armor back now."

"I'm in no hurry this moment, Garrosh. Thank you for everything."

The young Hellscream started to turn away, then bethought himself and swung back to face Jaina. For a moment, he seemed about to speak, but in the end settled for a brief inclination of the head before stalking off. It was enough for Jaina. In an undertone she said, "I think your plan worked."

"That has yet to be seen," Thrall answered cryptically. "But come. We have a celebration to attend, and it seems we're the guests of honor."

The Argent Crusade provided an escort to the dining pavilion; otherwise they might never have gotten there. They were trailed by hundreds of guests who, although stunned by the strange turn of events, were already telling and retelling the tale, adding their own embellishments. Thrall and Jaina were took their places at the head of the Winter Veil Feast. Toasts were drunk, most of them to Thrall's clever deception and victory, but Jaina was not forgotten, either. Tongues flowed freely with the wine and ale, and some of the more suggestive toasts made her blush.

It was speculated that Thrall's choice of Jaina as Lady of the Winter Veil was done deliberately to unify Horde and Alliance for the upcoming campaign to oust and defeat the Lich King. It was whispered that Thrall and Jaina were in love and had been holding secret trysts above Razor Hill for months. They were congratulated and joked with in turn. Jaina bore it all with a smile, ate little, and said less. Her mind was full to bursting with questions for Thrall, and she had no chance yet to ask a single one.

As if sensing her bewilderment, Thrall smiled down at her. "Wait, and I'll tell you everything," he promised. "But for now, be patient with them. We're their heroes."

Jaina had to wait a long time. Finally, just an hour or two before dawn, the last of the fireworks gave way to the aurora, the last of the oak kegs ran dry, and the last of the revelers stumbled happily off to bed. Finally, she and Thrall were left alone. Caught between vigor and enervation, Jaina asked him why. He'd been asked that throughout the course of the evening, many times, but had always deflected the question.

With Jaina, he was straightforward. "At first, it was to cover for Garrosh. He'd agreed to fight in the tournament, then decided the rules weren't to his liking. The Argent Crusade was loath to let him renege—their rules about acceptance were very clear—so I asked if I could stand in for Garrosh anonymously, and finally got Tirion to agree."

"And then? It earned you a lot more respect, if such a thing is possible. Did you hope that would happen?"

They were walking, companionably close, in the low hills southeast of the Tournament boundaries. The night was still and bitingly cold, the pre-dawn sky ablaze with stars. To the north, the pink and green banners of the aurora snapped and quivered in perfect silence, spread across a quarter of the sky. The knee-deep snow muffled their movements, and their breath mingled whitely in the darkness. Jaina still wore the circlet of wrought metal, though her head was otherwise bare.

Thrall rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "That was part of my motivation—the Horde still expects me to be a fighting orc, and some won't believe I am unless they see daily proof." His lip curled back from tusks and teeth; Jaina knew he was talking about Garrosh and his sympathizers. "Still," Thrall continued, "I didn't count on it working in my favor. You can't ever, truly, predict the tide of sentiment. Besides, I have to admit that it felt good to be fighting again in combat trials. I never thought I'd say that, but it did. Although Varian did give me a scare. He's good. I was disguising my style the whole time, which didn't make it easy to beat him. How is he, anyway?"

Jaina sighed. "The last I heard, he was drinking himself into oblivion with Mariel Trueheart and Marcus Jonathan."

"I hope he's less angry when he sobers up again."

"It'll be good for him. He's overdue for a dose of humility." She grinned suddenly. "You know, that nickname the trolls gave you has a double meaning."

Thrall laughed. The sound raised gooseflesh on her neck, not unpleasantly. "It's probably best if we don't let that particular insight slip to Varian."

"Never. But thank you for it, Thrall. My hope is that this will teach him to be a little more circumspect. The Alliance needs heroes badly, but not rash fools." She realized that Thrall had stopped in his measured plodding while she, intent on her words, went on ahead. She looked back. "What is it?"

He was a dark bulk silhouetted against the stars, face and body unreadable. "I hope so too, Jaina. But I didn't do it for Varian Wrynn." His voice was little more than a soft growl.

"Yes," she replied, impatient for him to catch up so they could get moving again. It was too cold to stand still for long. "You already mentioned that you did it for Garrosh."

"No. I said that was how it started. But it didn't end that way—I could have forfeited the first round." He came toward her, features again taking shape, and steered their course back toward the grounds. The tents and pavilions were still and silent beneath a rime of frost that glittered in the starlight.

"Why didn't you?" asked Jaina curiously, as they made their way down the slope.

"Partly for the joy of it, of course. But mostly because I saw the opportunity to help you as well."

Now it was her turn to stop as he went on ahead. He didn't wait, but continued to forge a path through the snow, so that she had to scramble in his wake. "What? Why?" Her voice sounded too shrill in her ears.

Thrall didn't answer until they had reached the outermost pavilion. He closed his hand around one of its garland-festooned struts. "Jaina, against the odds, we've been allies, even friends, for a long time now. It has been an honor to fight beside you as well as to talk with you about large matters and small ones. I think we trust each other." He paused long enough for her to nod. "You didn't have to tell me that Varian was making advances, nor that they were unwelcome. Just by knowing you, I could see it. I thought that if it was I who crowned you, rather than him, it would transfer his attention to me." He grinned. "In a different way, of course. Orgrimmar is somewhat more able to withstand Stormwind's wrath than Theramore is."

Jaina stared at him, mute. She'd believed it likely that Thrall would aid her against Stormwind, but only if she asked and only if he believed her decision in the matter to be a fair one. To have him decide, of his own accord, to place himself and his people in jeopardy for nothing more than the opportunity to protect her interests and her honor...those implications were too stunning and far-reaching for her to grasp all at once.

The silence lasted so long that doubt crept across Thrall's craggy face. "Or did I misread the situation, and you don't approve of my interference?"

Jaina's throat worked until she found her voice. "No. No, that's not it." The words came out strangled, barely articulate. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and continued more clearly, "It's only been in the past few days that I think I've realized how much I do trust you, Thrall. It's so strange—I should have known it years ago." She smiled at him, overwhelmed by his act of sacrifice. "Arthas, my father, Varian...they all wanted something I wasn't willing to give, and in the end it proved their undoing. But you—you are the one giving, in this case." She stared up at him, dazed and a little bit lost.

"Maybe it's not too late for Varian," Thrall said. He kept his voice neutral, and held himself very still.

Jaina shook her head. "Varian will stand or fall by his own counsel. I decided yesterday that I won't try to influence him any longer. Aegwynn thinks it was the right decision, too."

"And Arthas?"

She smiled sadly at that, and finally looked away from him, to the south. "Arthas may or may not be beyond saving. We won't know until we can face him. What I do know is that I can't go on forever trying to save damaged heroes from themselves."

"Very wise. Maybe I should take that stand with Garrosh."

Her smile this time was just for him, face tilted up and shining in the starlight. "We do what we can, don't we? But there comes a time when we have to protect what's most important."

Thrall inclined his head. "That, Miss Proudmoore, is exactly my point."

"Please. Jaina." Her teeth chattered briefly. "Come on, let's walk. It's freezing."

They struck out along the wide path between the stables and the Ring of Champions. There wasn't a soul around. The night, the longest night of the year, seemed to stretch endlessly with no dawn in sight. Jaina felt that she still had more to say, much more, but inevitably their steps brought them to the Sunreaver Pavilion, where Thrall was quartered.

Together they climbed the broad steps and paused just outside the entrance. Jaina was reluctant to let go of their perfect accord. Tomorrow the party would disperse. She would return to Dalaran, he to Orgrimmar, and the joint effort to take Icecrown Citadel would begin in earnest. They didn't have much longer to enjoy the peace this day had wrought, and the future was at best uncertain.

As if mirroring her thoughts, Thrall reached out and lightly fingered the thin metal of the stylized holly crown. Her hair tangled briefly around his rough fingers, each golden strand like silk on his skin as he gently pulled away. Overhead, the aurora shifted and flared, green and pink, pink and green, against the black. "I have a favor to ask you," he told her quietly.

Jaina's skin prickled with gooseflesh, though whether from the cold or from his touch, she couldn't be sure and didn't want to think too closely about. "Ask it," she murmured.

"When we assault Icecrown, will you ride beside me?"

Jaina smiled. "Just like the good old days on Mount Hyjal?"

Thrall laughed deep in his chest, a warm rumble between broad shoulders. "Only with a little more organization, let's hope." He stood just inches away, and Jaina was daunted by the sheer amount of space he filled. She was spellbound to be so near him, uncomfortable with the contentment she felt at the idea of riding to certain death at Thrall's side, and no longer cold. His expression as he watched her made her curl her toes inside her boots.

"Isn't that what the Lady of Winter Veil is supposed to do?" She broke the strange and vaulting mood with a jaunty grin, touching the crown where he had touched it. "I suppose that's the real reason you crowned me, to have a trustworthy mage at your back during the battle."

His face changed so starkly that her laugh died in her throat. The flash of pain and sorrow was quickly gone, though, and his voice was controlled. "Something like that."

"Yes, Thrall," she said, instantly remorseful. "I'll ride with you." He turned his head, and his face was again unreadable, all crags and shadows in the aurora light. "Thank you," she added, "For today. Tonight. I can't imagine a better evening, after all that's happened this year." Before her nerve could fail, wishing to reclaim their deep, if fragile, rapport, she rose on tiptoe to reach his face. The rich smell of his breath and skin assailed her nostrils and sent a shard of warmth through her belly.

The kiss she'd intended for his cheek went astray as Thrall jerked back, startled by her unexpected movement. One sharp tusk pricked her lower lip as he reflexively moved his head, causing her a bright, sharp stab of pain.

Jaina's heels connected solidly with wood. "Ow," she said.

Thrall made an inarticulate sound in his throat. His hand came up to her jaw so carefully it was as if he feared she would shatter when he tilted her face to survey the damage. "Jaina—I'm so sorry."

"It's nothing," she replied thickly, feeling like a prize fool. "Really." The syllables stretched her cut lip, and the drop of blood that had welled in the puncture fell into Thrall's palm. They both looked down at it, the scarlet bead of her blood brilliant against his green skin.

Thrall lowered his head and pressed his mouth against her brow, his fingers still cradling her chin. Jaina froze in surprise, understanding how he must have just felt. After a few seconds, though, the tension went out of her. She could feel the cold metal holly on her forehead, separating his warm flesh from hers. He released her and gently wiped the blood from her lip with his thumb. Jaina closed her eyes beneath his touch. When he pulled away, she sucked in her lip, tasting her blood and his skin. For a moment, she was unable to speak.

Thrall seemed to sense this. "I didn't expect a kiss," he told her with a wry smile. "I'll be ready next time."

A strange response bubbled up in her throat, but Jaina wasn't sure whether it was a laugh or a sob. She settled on a smile, careful not to grin too widely, lest her lip start bleeding again. "It was a sisterly kiss, you great oaf, and don't hold your breath for a next time." The lie came easily until her voice cracked on the last syllable, laying bare her meaning and, to guess from his swift and startled reaction, her soul.

Jaina took a step back. Her foot touched the first stair below. "I should get some sleep, and so should you." Regret squeezed her as her reluctant feet moved down another step. "Thrall..."

"Happy Winter Veil, Jaina." His voice was rich and deep, full of warmth, tinged with sadness. He reached out one more time; her fingers lifted to caress his, briefly, and then he was gone.

She made her way slowly across the glimmering snow to the Alliance pavilion. Exhaustion dragged at her, calling her to sleep. Before she entered the tent, Jaina looked up at aurora. Its beauty usually mesmerized her. This time, however, the pale dancing lights lost out to her memory of richer colors: scarlet on green, the holly's eternal promise of spring even in the depths of winter.


End file.
